G-Log

Have you ever stopped to wonder what your life would be like if you were born in a different time? It crossed my mind earlier today; I’m not sure why. But I wondered what my life would be like if, say, I was born in the 1800s. I would be me, in body and soul, but I wouldn’t be ME. I wouldn’t have had the same experiences and opportunities, so I would be a different person. I imagine I would look the same, but would my natural disposition still be the same? Would I still be introverted, a perfectionist, a control freak? And if I was, would I even knew what those things mean? Would I be married? Probably. But if I was, would I have married for love or because it was expected of me? Would I be a poor farmer’s wife? Considering where I was born, that’s highly likely. I needed a c-section with Leo. Would I have died giving birth? It’s all so much a matter of chance, where and when we are born. We have no control over it, and yet it plays such a huge role in defining who we are. What would Dean, my computer geek, do if he lived in a time before computers? Would I still love music so much, without such easy access to it? I don’t believe in reincarnation, but I would love to meet a different me in a different time. Just to compare notes.

I was having a conversation with a friend at work yesterday and I wanted to get some feedback on this particular topic.

You would think at my age, insecurities would start to diminish somewhat. I’m a married woman and my husband thinks I’m beautiful. So why am I so insecure about my weight? I am in a stable job that I feel I’m fairly good at, and I feel my position is secure for the most part, so why do I worry about my review? I know that I’m loved. Why should I care so much what people think of me? And do I even care about the people whose opinions I care about? It’s certainly not debilitating, but it’s always there, just under the surface. It’s such a strange thing to me. At what age does it start to go away, if ever? Surely when I’m 70 years old I won’t care what other people think, will I?

Maybe my insecurities still exist because I don’t feel like an “adult.” Not that I know what feeling like an adult should feel like, but I don’t feel much different than I did when I was a teenager. I still like the same types of music, though my tastes have expanded somewhat. I still like the same foods, the same activities. I help take care of a home and I’m a mom and I make sure bills get paid and have a full-time job, but all of that seemed like such a natural life progression that it didn’t have as much impact as I thought it would (well, with the exception of the mom part). Or maybe the reality is that everyone has insecurities–we just don’t talk about them as much when we get older. Maybe we get better at hiding them, or denying they are there. Maybe we’re all in the same boat. That would make me feel a little better, anyway.